


She walks in beauty

by Ginger_Shark01



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arranged Marriage, B/C i didn't want a huge gap between them, Consensual Underage Sex, F/M, Pregnancy, Sex, Underage Sex, i messed with the ages
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-05
Updated: 2015-06-05
Packaged: 2018-04-03 00:18:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4079380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ginger_Shark01/pseuds/Ginger_Shark01
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She walks in beauty, like the night of cloudless climes and starry skies; And all that's best of dark and bright meet in the aspect and her eyes; Thus mellowed to that tender light which Heaven to gaudy days denies.</p><p>- George Gordon Byron</p><p>AU where Sansa is married to Willas. Nothing else changes (Maybe...)</p><p>(I altered ages between Sansa and Willas, he's now 5 years older instead of like, 12)</p>
            </blockquote>





	She walks in beauty

**Author's Note:**

> HIIII
> 
> It's been so long!
> 
> Yes, I have another unfinished story, but I have NO motivation, srsly.
> 
> So, I'm starting fresh. 
> 
> There might be a day when I go to finish my old one, but not for a while. Plus, while I was AWOL I fell in LOVE with Sansa/Willas.

Garlan cannot deny that Sansa is exceptionally beautiful on the day of her marriage to his brother. Her grey maiden’s cloak she wears is not as stunning as the one worn by the Stark women before her, he would imagine, but it is exceptional none the less. Sansa, his mother and Margaery had been working night and day for the cloak, and the end result was a work of sliver and grey beads on a charcoal cloth, a direwolf so real it seemed to be caught in motion, the running wolf was as stern and as cold as the north, and looked terribly out of place on sweet, delicate Sansa’s shoulders. 

He walked Sansa out to the gardens, where they would proceed to the sept, and he turned around to kiss Leonette goodbye. It was when he turned back that he was stunned beyond the Gods’ beliefs. 

Sansa was rarely seen out in the light, joining them to break her fast and sup. He had never really seen her in the light, and he almost thought her head on fire. 

Sansa’s hair was like flame itself.

It flickered in the wind, oranges and yellows and reds twisting together in complicated twirls. It was down for the first time sense she’d been in Highgarden. Her hair fell down her back, like a waterfall at sunset. She was as Tully as they’d said.

But then he looked at her face.

Yes, she had the blue eyes of a Tully, but they weren’t the deep blue of the ocean. No, they were more the blue of the sky, not as grey as a Northman’s but not as blue as a Riverman’s. Her skin was as pale as snow, but that was to be expected coming from the North, where it was cold throughout summer. 

But her face, her face was a Stark. Not as masculine, but feminine, strong jaw with a strong nose, yet Sansa made it seem delicate.

It would seem she wasn’t as Tully as they said she was.

 

It is Joffrey who hands her to Willas at the sept.

“Your father’s dead,” he said in his boyish voice, “you have no brother nor uncle to hand you over. You have nobody. It seem only fitting that me, father of the realm, hand you over to your future lord.” Joffrey says at the entrance to the sept.

He doesn’t shut up, won’t stop talking as they’re walking down the aisle to Willas and oh he looks so handsome.

“Does the cripple know how much of a slut you are? How I undressed you in front of my whole court and you enjoyed it? Of course, if you were to have a bastard, he’d understand. He’d throw you away like the trash you are. I think maybe later on, I’ll give you a little visit myself. Would you like that?”

Keep a straight face.

“You wouldn’t? Oh, never mind, Ser Meryn and Ser Illyn can hold you down. I wonder though, can he make you scream? Can he make you bark like the dog you are? Can he make you howl?” 

His hand digs into her skin, as he leans into her and whispers, “I think I shall make you howl.”

They are with Willas, and she has never been more greatful.

I would’ve married him, she thinks, I would’ve married the spawn of the devil.

But Willas was not Joffrey, she thinks. He will hopefully not hit her or strip her in front of his court. 

Willas frowns at Joffrey, but does not say a word. It is as if he’d heard every venomous word he’d said. 

No, he wouldn’t care.

Willas unclasps the cloak around from her shoulders and replaces it with a green and yellow one, much prettier than her own. She finds herself suddenly very close to Willas, but she doesn’t mind. It is better than being closer to him.

She shivers at the thought and unconsciously leans into Willas.

 

Sansa should’ve known that Joffrey would find a way to ruin her day of freedom from him. She shouldn’t have thought that he would leave her be. Just because now she was no longer Sansa Stark, but Sansa Tyrell, doesn’t mean that she was no longer the king’s play-thing. 

She was silent almost throughout the whole feast, talking only to Tyrion and Shae, the two people who would remain with her in Highgarden.

Tywin Lannister had practically leapt at the opportunity of getting rid of Tyrion, so shipping him off to Highgarden to keep an eye on Sansa was the perfect excuse.

Shae came to her two nights before they left for Highgarden. The Queen had asked for her loyalty, and Shae agreed. Shae would be ‘spying’ on Sansa for Queen Regent. Sansa almost jumped with joy, but she knew the one behind it was Jaimie, who Sansa knew Tyrion corresponded with often.

And so it is only Tyrion she talks to, and the handful of people Margaery and Willas introduce her too. 

“Time for the bedding ceremony!”

Her heart stops. And she cannot hear anything, then men are grabbing at her, tearing her gown off her, all blond haired and Lannister faced.

Not my dress, she thought with dread, I love this dress.

It is Tyrion who saves it.

“Don’t rip the poor thing’s gown! She’s your Lady! Best treat her with the respect she deserves!”

Sansa would’ve married him right there and then.

Just because they went easy on her gown, doesn’t mean they went easy on her undergarments. She can feel Joffrey’s hands on her breasts, groping them and she feels bile rising in her throat.

The room doesn’t come quick enough.

The door opens and slams closed, and then it is just the two of them.

 

Sansa cannot help but stare at the heavy looming door, knowing that at any moment Joffrey could barge in and take her. She starts hyperventilating and shaking in her panic that he would put a bastard in her.

The rough, calloused and yet gentle and warm hand that lands on her shoulder brings her out of her panicked state.

“Are you cold?” Willas’ deep, rich voice asks her, and she almost forgets how to breathe. Willas turns her head towards him. “Sansa, what’s wrong?”

It is only then that she realises that her face is wet, and she hurries to wipe her tears off her face. It had made Joffrey angry when she cried. He would ask his guards to twist her arm until she yelled with pain “I am your king! You will do as I say!”

She forces a smile to her face. Never show pain. Joffrey loved when she was in pain. “Forgive me, My Lord, I’m just so-“ her voice catches and she feels the bile rise up again. “So overcome with emotion right now.”

He just wipes the stray tear on her face off with the pad of his thumb. “You’re terrified,” he says, sliding his hand down her arm, and she waits for it to tighten, to dig into her skin as Joffrey’s had. But it doesn’t. It just ghosts over the bruise that is starting to form from Joffrey’s fingers on her arm. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

Sansa stares at him in confusion, what did he mean? “But you have to,” she blurts out without thinking. “Joffrey-”

Willas’ eyes darken and Sansa cannot breathe again. She tenses, waiting for him to strike. But he doesn’t harm her. He doesn’t shake her or hit her or call her obscenities. Instead, his hands come up and cradle her face, and whispers low and husky, “that boy will never lay a hand on you again.”

His lips meet hers, and it takes her breath away.

 

Willas guides her to the bed, and gently bids her to sit on it. She thinks that he will go for her chest – Joffrey groped her in public. It didn’t matter who was watching or where they were – but instead he turns her over, and offers her the covers. They are not as thick and heavy as those in the North, due to the warmth of the South, but winter is coming, and she wonders how any of them will manage to survive. 

The covers are soft against her skin, and Sansa guesses that it is some fabric from Essos, for it is as soft and as light as air, or maybe Dorne. 

Willas’s hands thread through her hair undoing the two braids that met in the middle of her hair, and threads his long, spindly fingers through her locks.

“Shhh,” he says, “just relax. Let me take care of you.”

It is then that Sansa remembers that Willas is five years her senior. 

He has done this before.

His fingers ghost over the scars left by Ser Meryn on her back, and softly dig into the knots on it. Time is lost to her, for she is lost to the magic of Willas’ fingers. His fingers make her loose-limbed. She is melted, liquid, putty in his hands. It is unlike anything she’s ever felt before.

It is only then he presses his lips to the bare of her back.

As light as a feather, so much so that she can barely feel it, he kisses the knob at the base of her neck, her shoulder blades, and her wounds from the sword. Never relenting in its gentleness and lightness. She grows not tired of it, but aching for more. She needs more than feather-light kisses, and so she pushes her shoulder into his mouth, but he just laughs and turns her over, and in her drunken state, she lays as naked as a babe before him, all dignity lost.

He kisses her neck, with more pressure than her back and oh that’s his tongue. His elegant fingers gently stroke her stomach in circles, tapping out Southron songs every now and again. That’s right, he plays instruments. Maybe one day he’ll teach her.

His fingers keep moving higher, his mouth never moving from her neck and jaw, and his fingers reach her ribcage, skimming her side, gently dragging his nails down and up again until finally, finally, he reaches her breast, palming it. Gently caressing them, firmer than before. His mouth removes itself from her neck, and she misses the feel of it, but her plea dies in her mouth as it reattaches itself on her breast and surely this is adultery. Nothing should feel this good.

He draws up again, staring at her body, slick with sweat, hair messed from her fingers yanking at it, bed sheets beside her in her efforts to put as little between his mouth and her.

He starts towards the other end of the bed, and Sansa is confused. He rests his head in between her legs and kisses the inside of her thigh, and he grins cheekily up at her. Sansa opens her mouth to ask him what he’s doing when his mouth lowers and he kisses her sacred place.

She trembles.

Her mouth is frozen, open in an ‘o’ shape, and she forgets how to speak, forgets that anything exists out of such pleasure. 

He kisses all over it, and his calloused fingers stroke her nub and his tongue – gods his tongue does things that leave her shaking. The skilled press and movements of his tongue and clever, clever fingers have her writhing, moaning loudly and surely they can hear her outside but Sansa just doesn’t care. He licks at her like a kitten to a bowl of fresh cream. Sansa is left to clutch at the covers, before they move to thread themselves into his curls, squirming under his ministrations.

His hands move from their gentle grip on the inside of her thighs to where his mouth is, and Sansa thinks that his mouth will leave her but it simply can’t. She would go insane if his mouth ever spent a minute outside of her thighs. But his head never lifts, but his finger starts teasing the opening of her womanhood. Sansa was always terrified at the prospect of anything being inserted down… down there. It was so tight! But Willas once again proved her wrong, easily inserting two fingers in her wetness.

He slowly moves them in and out, keeping their patient movements, never loosing rhythm. It must have gone on for days. Sansa wants- needs more, and she starts thrusting herself down onto his fingers, begging, pleading for more. Willas chuckles and the vibration that sends so much pleasure through her has her gasping for air. Then he curves his fingers inside of her and her legs shake with pleasure, obscenities fall from her mouth along with his name.

The world goes white.

 

Willas leads her to such unravelling over and over again, until all he has to do is whisper on her core and her eyes roll to the back of her head. He finally draws up and lays next to her, but it is not, surprisingly, him that initiates the intimacy; it is Sansa.

Sansa waits for the hollowing sense of fear in her stomach, for the stab and the twist of terror, but it does not come. 

It is her that presses against him, instinct taking over as she rolls them over until she’s on top, and Willas catches her behind one knee to draw her leg over him. It is like riding a horse, she thinks. She leans down and claims his lips, tasting herself. It is an odd taste, salty and sour yet so delectably desirable. Her lips work against his as her hair falls around them like a curtain. 

Sansa pushes herself up to sit, unsure, straddling Willas like a horse. She takes his manhood in hand, guiding it to the opening of her core. She feels the familiar feeling of heat in her stomach, wetness in between her legs. “Go as slowly as you need,” he says.

She leans down and grounds herself on Willas’ chest, needing to know that he was there, that he wasn’t hurting her, that he was kind, he was the one they sung about in the songs. Sansa slowly sunk down on his length, and it seemed never-ending, but she eventually reached the junction where both their bodies met. It didn’t hurt like Shae told her it most likely would, but more like stretching an over-used muscle, or using an under-used muscle. It just took some time getting used too.

His fingers threaded through her hair as hers did to his, and they slowly made their way down her neck and started to stroke her back. Instinct once again took over as Sansa started moving up and down, and oh it just feels so good. His tender, guiding hands urge her on, never pushing her though, teaching her how to move in all the right ways, and she wonders how he ever got so good at this. He’s five years older than me, she remembered, he has done this before. It is that thought that feels her with more jealousy than she had ever felt, and Sansa didn’t like it, so she moved faster, so the pleasure would overrule all other feelings. 

They rock together, quickening as urgency builds within them each. Sansa can see the thin shimmer of sweat on his skin, can feel beads of it building and dropping down her back and her legs. It tickles as it trails down her spine, is shaken off the tip of her nose as she sits up on Willas and goes even faster. His hands trace her hips, nails lightly raking up her sides to her back, and around to trace and cup her breasts, before going back the way they came, finally coming to rest at the juncture where they are joined.

Willas teases the little nub where it was throbbing unbearably, much like before. The pleasure is blinding, so immediate. Sansa feels her legs shake as her eyes roll back into her head and she begins to contract uncontrollably, a rush of pure pleasure courses her body, taking control, so there is nothing for her to do but throw her head back and wail. It’s shameless and wanton and completely eradicates all dignity, and she loves it, because there is simply nothing better.

Willas sits up beneath her, arms snaking around her chest and clutching her tight as he buries his face in her breasts, driving deep into her again and again and again, until he is breathless, groaning in pleasure. When at last his seed spills inside of her, it is with her name on his lips. She cradles him to her breast as he pants, hands tangled in his hair, exhausted. She didn’t think she’d walk straight for months.

 

They both wake up before dawn breaks, and Sansa feels a dull ache in between her thighs. It is not a bad ache, but a good one. Willas turns over to face her and starts to stroke idle patterns on her stomach, cheek against her tangled hair. No words are exchanged between the two newly-weds. Sansa smiles. She has never felt so deliciously wrung-out, so wholly luxuriated. She’s never understood how severely dismaying Joffrey is.

Her smile falls.

Sansa looks into the hair of her new husband, the same shade as kind Margaery, one of her only friends in King’s landing. She looks at her own hair, the same colour as the marks that had stood on her skin after Joffrey had received news of her brother’s victories. “Joffrey is a monster,” she says softly, voice trembling.

Willas’ hand doesn’t falter, tapping delicate songs onto her skin before switching back to drawing swirls. “I know,” he says after a moment.

Nearly a year of built-up confessions bubble up inside of her, dirty secrets begging to be told, words near bursting from her lips. “He hurts me, he hurts our people and no-one does a thing about it. He will hurt-” Margaery, it’s begging to be released on the tip of her tongue. If he marries Margaery, he will hurt her and there’s nothing you can do about it. “He should be stopped,” she says instead, “I wish someone would just make him stop.”

She’s never spoken this level of honesty to a soul in near over a year. Moons and moons at King’s Landing, holding her tongue. 

Stupid, stupid girl, she realises, you just doomed yourself to his wrath. 

Sansa looks at Willas’ kind, lovely, honest face, and realises she’s never felt this safe in her life time.

Willas stops his hand and moves it to her neck, and lightly kisses her forehead. “Perhaps somebody will,” he finally says, one of his eagles landing on the balcony.

It had never struck her how free a bird was.

**Author's Note:**

> Australian word/sentence/thing of the day:  
> You've got Buckley's chance - You've got no chance whatsoever, mate. So give up.
> 
> Go look up Buckley, I won't bore you, but he's a pretty interesting bloke.
> 
> I don't know how many parts there will be to this story, but I REALLY can't imagine more than 10.


End file.
